Honour
by Finding Beauty
Summary: The Wutaian War rages. Loyalty is questioned; honour is lost; the past is forsaken for something more. (TsengxRufus, yaoi.)


**Disclaimer**: Final Fantasy VII, its characters, settings, and story, belong to Squaresoft and no doubt other respective companies. No copyright infringement is intended. 

**Author's Note**: This is part of an ongoing arc, but can be read as a stand-alone. Things will generally make more sense if you bother reading the whole thing, but overall it should be fairly easy to comprehend by itself. This is set during the events of the Wutaian war, which took place sometime around five years before the events of the game. This is dedicated to Beautifully Twisted, for supporting a small idea that turned massive. 

* * *

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**  
Honour  
**  
  
_I still find it so hard  
To say what I need to say  
But I'm quite sure that you'll tell me  
Just how I should feel today._  
— Orgy, "Blue Monday"  
  
It occurs to him in dark flashes of thought that he should be out there fighting and dying alongside his countrymen, amongst those supporting the rich legacy he has all but forgotten, buried under the smog and ashes of his new life in Midgar, exchanged for tailored suits and a fast car and the oiled pistol that are the mark of success in this sprawling metropolis.

He should be there in the depths of the jungles he explored as a child, fighting with a sword belt slung on his hips and the scabbard beating against his calves, leather-wrapped hilt slick in his palm from sweat and blood not his own splashed up his sleeves, arm aching in the movement of slash, block, parry, stab, and not a moment to stop because it means certain death. 

He should die with them as he has failed to live with them, cutting down the drab-clad Shinra troops before they have time to react in their mechanical movements, toy soldiers on a mission they have no heart for, just paychecks and the vainglorious quest to become as great as the silver-haired man who leads them in their strike. 

He should not be standing here on the plush carpeting of a modern-decorated office with his hands clasped behind his back, watching the celebration parade—_The great General Sephiroth has invaded the capital, a new victory has been scored against the Wutaian resistance!_—as if it means nothing to him. As if those dying there in the sticky mud made of soil and their own lifeblood mean nothing. He is in the den of the enemy, may as well belong to them as hard as he resists it. 

He is the worst sort of traitor. He stands and looks on in detached fascination as the parade floats glide by, dignitaries waving formally from their perches, lines of dancers preceding along with military vehicles. Little girls rain flower petals down on the crowds and it is all so hypocritical—hundreds of Shinra's soldiers have died in the onslaught, perhaps a two-to-one ratio to how many warriors of Wutai have been lost, yet Midgar celebrates as if this is some grand victory, as if these people on the upper plate do not forget their own, lost down there in the slums and the dismal muck and grime of a struggle that is daily and eternal. 

And near the head of the procession that moves like a great winding snake is the crown prince of this city, standing in his white suit with golden hair immaculate. 

Tseng abruptly turns away from the window, ninety degrees until he faces the desk of his superior. The move is not executed before the other man notices what his attention had been on, and Heidegger's expression shifts into something between pleasure and spite, unattractively distorting the scar that mars his face. 

"How's the assignment going?" 

Tseng is forced to take a moment to consider, to carefully separate his professional feelings from his personal ones. There is too much conflict in his mind, and he must distance himself from the fact that he resents this assignment, to be playing bodyguard and spy to Rufus Shinra. The Turks are paid not to ask questions, but a part of him chafes against these ties that bind him to Midgar. 

"There have been no threats," he replies at last, double meaning in every word he speaks. There is no danger of the Vice President wishing to overthrow his father, and no danger of anyone wishing to see Rufus harmed, either. "Very little occurs on a daily basis." 

"No wonder," says Heidegger. "The only people who're around the little brat are forced into it." He lifts his large frame from behind the desk and maneuvers over to share the Turk's view out the window, laughs his strange horse-like laugh as his eyes come to rest on the passing float. 

"I'll be keeping you on this assignment a while yet," he concludes after a moment in which Tseng does not share in his humor. 

"And my other duties?" Tseng inquires. 

"It's slow here; all the action to be had is in Wutai. Rude and Reno can pick up the slack, if there is any. Dismissed." 

* * *

Tseng is far from where he began so many years ago—barely a man, still wet behind the ears, showing up in Midgar looking for a job with Shinra, Inc., like so many other nothings and no ones from rural villages and isolated country regions. Then he'd been nothing more than a displaced young man seeking to follow the legacy of a long dead father he'd never really known, armed only with an old standard-issue Peacemaker pistol (even with nearly mastered materia jammed in its slots) and an heirloom tanto blade that had been passed through his family generation after generation, from father to son—ending with him, the bastard child who broke the ancestral line.

Now he is something else entirely, someone else; he has conformed to their ways, beaten them at their own game. He has gone on to become more than any of them ever might have thought he could, but it is somehow a hollow victory, even as leader of the revered Turks, group immortalized in fifteen-minute legend by noir writers and their one-gil novels. Entertainment on the street corners in the slums, peddled with flowers and less innocent services, romanticized ideals of what must go on up _there_ on the upper plate, the intrigues of the rich and powerful and beautiful people. 

Rufus Shinra is one of those beautiful people, arrogant and haughty and completely unaware of most of what goes on below the sixty-ninth story where he resides. He has been raised within this tower of convex glass and steel; Tseng is doubtful whether he has even ever been out to explore the city he plans to hold as his own someday. There is a certain irony in that, though at the same time it is equally doubtful whether old President Shinra shall ever actually allow his son to claim that inheritance. Perhaps in that way, at least, they are equal, both distanced from their heritage, if in different ways. 

"I didn't see you at the parade," Rufus calls out when Tseng steps into his suite. He is a room away but confident in the fact it must be his bodyguard to enter; few are trusted with a keycard to his residence, and they have reached the point of routine where their interaction is almost comfortable. Almost—if only Tseng would give in to loosening up. 

"Reno and Rude were there; you weren't left unguarded," the Turk reassures perfunctorily, scanning about the room though he has now seen it enough to familiarize himself with it. 

Rufus emerges from the bedroom still half-dressed in his formal clothes, preoccupied with unfastening onyx cufflinks. "Yes . . . I had the pleasure of meeting them. Tell me, does Rude ever talk, or does Reno simply say too much for him to get a word in?" 

Tseng feels an almost involuntary tilt of his lips at the all too accurate description of his Turks. "Rude is naturally quiet," he thoughtfully replies, turning to face the Vice President. "Reno—is the exact opposite. They are well balanced to one another." 

"Balance—that's important to you, isn't it?" Rufus seems almost intrigued by the thought; everything in his world is precariously so. He pauses, worrying at the knot of his tie, and looks as if he wonders how best to phrase a question. "You've never told me anything about yourself," he says finally. 

"There is not much to tell, sir." Tseng dips his head in a slight nod of apology and closes the space between them, reaching toward the tie with a questioning look. "If I may?" 

"You're welcome to it," Rufus replies in exasperation, pulling his own hands away. "Whoever tied this knot should be thrown out a window." 

The Turk is somehow unsurprised that the privileged Vice President can hardly remember who attended him in preparing for the parade. He holds the thoughts to himself and deftly loosens the knot, sliding the length of the tie free. 

"You're a gift from the Planet, Tseng," he carelessly not-quite-thanks him, drawing back to remove the tie and shrug off his jacket. "There must be something about you—or else I shall be forced to think of you as the Turk who has a way with superficial pieces of clothing." 

"It wouldn't be an untruth," Tseng says unhelpfully, his most polite way of refusing the request again. 

"What about your homeland?" Rufus disappears into the bedroom again, but does not drop the subject. "And don't tell me Midgar's it—no one's really from Midgar." 

Tseng is suddenly grateful for the wall that separates them as his expression almost falters, mask of calm threatening to slip away at the unwelcome reminder. "It . . . has been a long time since I left Wutai," he finally responds, as if to suggest the place means nothing to him now. 

But that is difficult to believe. Rufus is well-educated, more than enough to know the customs of the country, the cultural ties that bind. Midgar defies everything the Wutaian religion holds sacred—balance, harmony, things Tseng himself spoke of in moderation moments earlier. When Rufus steps back out of the bedroom, tugging down the sleeves of his customary black turtleneck, his expression is skeptical. 

"Do you ever think of going back?" 

"Were I to return now, it would be as an enemy," replies the Turk after a moment of thoughtful silence. 

"It is a great loss," Rufus says from an analytical point of view, "but they should have taken into account the consequences." 

Tseng falls silent at this. It is one thing to know the truth, another entirely to hear it from this cultured and well-bred young man, this sharp-tongued boy who has no voice of his own with which to properly express the demands he presses upon the world. Rufus Shinra knows nothing about the intricacies of warfare; educated he may be but no book can teach him what he lacks in experience. How much can he understand about the men who are fighting and dying out there while his father holds parades and shows him off like a pretty possession—all while his subordinates are picked off in scores? 

"Are there always such consequences for holding to what one believes in?" the Turk asks before he can stop himself. He realizes that his resentment is becoming dangerous; he must learn to better control it. 

Anger flashes in pale blue eyes and fades almost as quickly as it appeared. "You should save the philosophical questions for my old man." 

Tseng turns away to the window. The crowds of earlier have dispersed and now cleaning crews sweep up the streets of confetti and flower petals. "My apologies, sir. It is not in my place." 

But Rufus is wary now; spirits are not crushed so easily as some might be led to believe—upbringing and heritage do not vanish with sheer force of will. If Tseng is an example of his homeland, then he understands why his father wishes to stave off the resistance enough to have sent General Sephiroth, when many initially questioned the decision to expend such resources on a backwater country's guerrilla army. 

_Peasants with pitchforks indeed_, he thinks, recalling Scarlet's reaction to the news. 

"My father brought it on himself," Rufus says, spite heading off better judgment. 

"Even still, he rules the world." Tseng pauses and the next words are issued as a subtle warning of caution, "Someday it will be yours." 

Rufus snorts his contempt at the idea, coming to stand alongside the Turk at the window. "He would rather live forever than see it fall into my hands." 

Tseng smiles a feral smile. "No one lives forever, sir." 

* * *

Alone in the relative privacy of his office, Tseng opens the manila folder that has been sitting on his desk for the entire day. It is not that he isn't allowed access to the file, but suspicions run high in Shinra, Inc., and he prefers solitude in perusing it. A part of him wonders if he will regret it, right before a half dozen pictures of dead Wutaian citizens pour out across his desk, men and women, young and old, all run through by the wicked curved blade of a general's sword.

For a moment he stares blankly at the glossy greyscale that portrays blood in black-and-white, then he calmly stacks them together and paperclips them face down to the other side of the folder. The report details them as leaders in the resistance, all summarily executed for their involvement as soon as all relevant information could be extracted from them. Tseng reads through the file with all the morbid curiosity granted to something too horrible to watch but too fascinating to turn away from. 

When he's finished, a sort of unexplainable exhaustion lurks behind his eyes and he drops the folder into the metal wastebasket and disposes of it with a flare of fire materia. He no longer fully understands why he does this to himself. First it was vague interest, even the Shinra-loyalist idea that he might be able to grant some viewpoint on the situation that Midgar-native tacticians could not. Now it has turned into altogether something else, and it begins to concern him, though he will not open himself to the possibility of fear. 

Honour, perhaps, an ancient code that he has broken. But no such sense of tradition matters in Midgar; Tseng is forced to admit that he has not come as far as he believed. 

The evidence is smoldering in ashes when Rude's decisive knock sounds on the door. Tseng calls for the other two Turks to enter and thinks to make himself look preoccupied by checking his messages. He doesn't look up until Reno plops down unceremoniously in a chair, followed by Rude's more dignified settling into the opposite. 

"You have your report?" he asks. 

"It's quiet," Rude replies with a shrug. He turns his head as if scenting the extinguished fire, but says nothing of it. "Nothing new." 

"In other words, boring as all hell." Reno, naturally, has his own views of the situation. He's the youngest of them, but he's had little trouble settling in. "All the action's in Wutai, why aren't we there?" 

"We are Turks, not SOLDIERs," Tseng replies shortly. "Our interests lie in subtlety, not common warfare." 

"And playing bodyguards to a brat," Reno says, shifting around in his chair in restless annoyance. 

Rude, perceptive enough to recognize Reno's slip where the redhead does not, interrupts before Tseng can reply. "Do we have new orders?" 

"No." Tseng lifts a fountain pen off his desk in an uncommon show of agitation and drops it into a holder that contains other writing instruments. "Continue as you have been, report to me as usual. That's all for now." 

The two rise and start for the door, but Tseng calls out before they can exit, "Oh, and Reno? That brat is your employer. You would do well to remember it." 

* * *

In his dream he stands in his childhood home. Tseng is quite certain it is a dream; before he left Wutai a decade ago he sold this very place to someone else and left with only a few chosen belongings. Yet for a rare moment of sentimentality he takes a moment to look around, bending down to run his fingertips over the surfaces of low pieces of furniture. It looks as he remembers it from not just ten years ago, but twenty.

"You've come back home." 

Therefore, he is little surprised when his mother's soft voice intrudes upon his thoughts. He turns his head to look up at her, then gets back to his feet. She looks much the same as she always did in his youth, but now matured, Tseng finds himself recognizing things in her that he failed to see as a child. She still seems the embodiment of quiet elegance, a serene presence. Though he knows she isn't real, he finds himself calmed by her. 

"I've returned here," he replies, "but home? Not any longer." 

"You were hardly of age the last time I saw you." She crosses the room to stand before him, a head shorter but no less imposing for it. "Yet you're all grown up now." 

"I'm not a child anymore, no," he agrees faintly. 

Her small hand smoothes down the front of his dark suit jacket, fussily tucks his tie into place. "You're the image of your father." 

Tseng pauses, tilting his chin up slightly. "I've become what I set out to be. A Turk, as he was." 

"I loved your father," his mother says almost sadly, reaching up to lift black hair off his collar, the glossy strands sliding through her fingers like silk. Then she takes his face in her hands and sighs wearily. "But I never wanted you to become him." 

* * *

"You're quiet today," Rufus comments, looking up from the screen of his laptop. Tseng raises his eyebrows at him and he amends, "You're always quiet. But today the quiet is quiet." He folds the computer shut and props his elbows on the desk. "You have something on your mind?"

Tseng says nothing, and Rufus's aristocratic features are fixed into a petulant expression. "You never tell me anything. It's a good thing you're not paid to talk." 

"Turks are paid not to talk, sir," Tseng replies dryly. 

This, at least, gets something of a positive reaction out of Rufus, and he smirks. "Do I detect a sense of humor? Could it be that the leader of the Turks is actually—_witty_? That could be dangerous around here." 

Tseng's smile is faint and for the most part not amused. It could be considered just as much of a contradiction that Rufus Shinra, who never bleeds nor cries, actually seems to have a personality of his own. But several things about the young Vice President are that way; Tseng supposes that once he comes into his own, his extreme personality traits will begin to balance themselves out more. Certainly the relative naïveté he clings to despite his position in life will begin to ebb away, likely the first thing to go. 

Rufus rises from his chair and moves to join Tseng at the window, and he gazes down for a moment on the monochromatic view of the city—what will someday be _his_ city. "How long will you keep coming here?" he asks all of a sudden. 

"Until my orders state otherwise, sir," Tseng responds, turning his head to regard Rufus curiously. "Do you find my presence intrusive?" 

"Actually," Rufus says, and the words are uncommonly softly spoken, as if he's embarrassed or self-conscious over them, "I've grown to enjoy your company." 

Tseng accepts this without a word. 

"Though I know if there was actually some grand conspiracy to have me assassinated, it would all be past by now." Rufus pauses, his eyes narrowing. "It's been weeks." 

"Plots aren't always immediately revealed," Tseng begins. 

"Spare me that," Rufus cuts him off with an impatient toss of his head. "We both know why you're here, to watch me. And not for _my_ protection." 

Tseng's jaw tightens at this, not because he has been found out. That matters little to him; Rufus is not so naïve that he couldn't figure out the Turk's true purpose in being there. But Tseng does not tell Rufus of what he is equally as certain is intended in the arrangement: that it is just as convenient for Rufus to watch him, as it is for him to watch Rufus. No one would openly question his loyalties enough to make a blatant inquiry, but at the same time he feels the irony in them allowing a potential traitor into the isolated circle of the Vice President. 

"I am here for your protection, sir," Tseng replies at last. "Whether your father considers that to include protecting you from yourself, I have no say over." 

"Always doing your duty, then," Rufus states. "Do you think of this as nothing more than another assignment, then?" 

Tseng quells the sigh that rises in response to Rufus's words. Despite all that he is the Vice President of Shinra and the youngest person in such a position of power in the world, the simpler fact remains that Rufus Shinra is barely more than a boy. A teenager of the age of seventeen, thrust into a place he is likely not ready for. Rufus has spent his life in isolation, barely stepping outside this very building, never without a guard or an equally watchful eye or manipulative hand to guide him. 

"Sir," he states, knowing there is no correct answer. 

Rufus snorts in contempt—whether at himself or at the Turk, Tseng is uncertain—as he turns away and walks back to his desk. "Of course, it's too much of me to think you might enjoy my company as well. I must be nothing more than a burden to you." 

Tseng is silent, and the moment stretches taut between them. Rufus seems strained not to make an outburst, and the Turk silently approves of the self-control he shows, unlike previous encounters they have had. 

"This assignment is not what I am accustomed to," Tseng admits. 

"Not used to babysitting?" Rufus asks scornfully. 

"I am more in the work of ending lives than protecting them," the Turk states frankly. "But that isn't what I meant." He steps away from the window and turns to face Rufus. "Allow me to be blunt when I say I didn't expect you to be companionable." 

It is the truth. For all the fact that he would very much prefer not to like Rufus at all, he has somehow grown used to the boy's presence, even if he will not venture so far as to say attached. Rufus still has his moments and, indeed, quite a bit of growing up to do, but he is not as intolerable as Tseng had been led to believe. A part of him even seems to be lonely, and Tseng is uncertain how to accept the attachment Rufus seems to have developed for _him_. He finds that he likes the young man, and even respects him beyond the level of default granted to a superior. 

Rufus seems pleased with this, and he almost smiles. To Tseng, the thought occurs that the delicate balance between them has subtly shifted. 

* * *

The heels of polished loafers click perfunctorily against marble tile as Tseng approaches the swimming pool and stops to stand, looking down at the figure breaking the surface of the water. Rufus swims gracefully in long, slow strokes, for the moment unaware of the Turk's presence. Tseng takes time to consider this sight of Rufus for once unguarded, so unlike the way he usually acts, as a young man who has quite literally lived his life within the walls of a glass house.

Then he clears his throat and the feeling dissolves, and along with it all the mixed emotions in his coming here. Rufus pauses, treading water as he turns to look up. Tseng is unwilling to notice that the young Vice President's face almost seems to brighten. 

"Come for a dip?" Rufus asks, sounding amused. 

"I have something to speak to you about." Tseng ignores the playful question and lifts a towel off the back of a lounge chair to offer it to Rufus as he climbs the ladder out of the pool. 

"I have something I wanted to ask you about, too. The trip to Junon in a few days—" 

Tseng's voice is surprisingly controlled, too easily without emotion. "I will not be accompanying you, sir. I have been given new orders." 

To his credit, Rufus manages not to look disappointed. He finishes drying off and shrugs his robe on. "New orders?" 

"A reassignment," the Turk clarifies, "at the President's request." He is careful not to use terms such as 'your father,' mindful still of to whom he speaks. 

Rufus frowns as he knots his belt. "I'll speak to him about it. I'm sure I can have him change his mind." 

"Perhaps it is for the best, sir." Tseng closes his eyes briefly, finds an unwillingness to remain in this young man's presence for much longer. It is not that Rufus is difficult to endure—it is more in the difficulty he has in enduring himself when he is around the younger man. 

"Do you want to be reassigned?" 

"What I want doesn't matter." He attempts not to let impatience seep into his tone. He does not say what he thinks or feels—but he must admit that most people are inclined to underestimate Rufus Shinra. He will make a formidable leader someday, if given the proper guidance and taught to outgrow the immature nature that tells him he can have whatever he wants at a whim. 

"What I want does," Rufus says boldly, "and I want you to stay." 

* * *

Later that evening, Tseng returns from a call to Heidegger's office with righteous anger seething beneath the surface of his calm. Rufus turns from the window, looking inordinately pleased with himself. "Was that about your reassignment?" he asks lightly.

Tseng narrows his dark eyes but forces himself not to react on suspicion. "Yes. It seems I've been removed. Rude will be going instead." 

Rufus smiles. The expression almost works. "Then that means you can accompany me to Junon." 

For once the Turk cannot bite down on his curiosity. "Did you have something to do with this, sir?" 

A thoughtful look appears on Rufus's face, then finally he nods. "Yes. I hadn't wanted to tell you—" 

"Why?" 

"Because I was worried you might think I—" 

"No," Tseng interrupts, his tone sharp, unable to mask the anger entirely now. "Why did you have my orders changed?" 

"I only wanted to—" Rufus begins with an indignant huff, clearly not comprehending entirely why Tseng should be angry. Then annoyance of his own surfaces and he states, "I should think you would thank me. It was a dangerous assignment." 

"No more danger than I've faced before. I'm a Turk. This is what I'm paid to do—_not_ to play bodyguard to an insolent little brat such as yourself." 

Rufus stares as if no one has ever had the nerve to speak to him this way before. Likely, no one has. "Are you forgetting who you're talking to, Tseng?" he asks. "I could have you fired now for insubordination!" 

Tseng draws in a deep breath, forced now to wonder how he ever could have seen anything about Rufus Shinra on his own merit. At heart he truly is the icy little boy he presents to the world, a tiny echo of his father who will gradually grow to become the same—or worse. 

"You do not own me, _sir_," he answers, his voice deadly still. 

"You follow my orders." Rufus straightens haughtily. "Isn't that the same thing?" 

The sharp crack of Tseng's hand striking his cheek is the only thing that registers in the room for a moment. Then Rufus reflexively steps back from the Turk, his eyes going wide as he backs toward the window. He looks astoundingly young and innocent as he lifts a hand to his face, where an angry red is splashed over his cheekbone. Tseng doubts in that moment that Rufus has ever been hit by anyone; he thinks rather numbly of the fact that he is the one to have struck him now. 

"How dare you?" demands Rufus as his voice finally returns through the shock. 

Then he lunges at Tseng, a hand fisting in his jacket lapel, the other stopping midair when the Turk catches him around the wrist and pulls him upright. For a frozen second they gaze at each other with eyes smoldering in anger and a spark of something else, then Tseng's arm wraps around Rufus's waist and draws him suddenly closer, hip to hip, as he leans down and takes his lips in a forceful kiss. Rufus gasps in surprise and Tseng's tongue slides into his open mouth, the other half-gloved hand releasing his wrist and going instead to trace a thumb forcefully over the stinging mark the slap left behind. 

The kiss seems to last an eternity but not long enough, and when Tseng pulls away Rufus sags in his arms, hardly registering it when the words are spoken lowly in his ear, "I am not your plaything, nor am I a toy to be passed around by a little boy who has been born into more power than he knows what to do with." 

Tseng releases him abruptly. "I suggest you think carefully on what it is you intend to do once you have me." 

Rufus leans back against the window, uncertain of his ability to stand on his own power. He wears a stunned expression of an entirely different sort, and though he would very much like to say something, anything in response, Tseng turns on a heel and stalks out the door, and it is too late. 

Rufus is left with the feeling that it is too late for a great many things. 

* * *

__

_When he sleeps, he dreams of chaos. Screams echo through streets painted with shadows cast by the wicked orange glow of the flames that destroy houses, incinerating paper walls. Men die fighting in their doorways, the women and children they'd protected dragged out clawing and fighting as best they can, only to be silenced by blows. One of them lifts her dark head, and her face is outlined in firelight._

She bears an uncanny resemblance to his mother. 

Tseng opens his eyes and lingers for a moment to stare at the ceiling of his bedroom, dark still in the pre-dawn light. He usually rises as promptly as he wakes, but this morning is slow to sit up, reaching over to turn off the alarm clock before it can go off. The red glow of digital letters reflecting on the wall opposite reminds him uncomfortably of the dream—nightmare?—and he flicks on the lamp to dispel the images. 

Tseng dresses quietly and turns to the mirror to fix his tie, and in doing so is forced to stare at his reflection. He quickly knots and tightens the length of silk, then drops his palms flat upon the surface of the dresser. His choices have all led him here, he thinks, to this place. Though he looks like one of them, he knows it is an illusion. His choices have all led him here, and now he is at the breaking point. Ironic that he should meet his downfall while serving in so docile a position; his father was guarding someone, too, when he went mysteriously missing. 

_I never wanted you to become him_, the dream-words of his mother echo in his memory. 

He closes his eyes and exhales a breath, thinking about the repercussions of his actions, of the choices he made the night before. He is for once uncertain, knowing not how he will handle it or what course of action he can take. One foolish decision after another, from questioning orders to assaulting the very one he is bound by duty to protect. And what happened afterward . . . he cannot deny a lingering desire for Rufus, but the feeling is complex and not one he wishes to attempt to unravel. It cannot work, nor could it ever last. 

There is no more logic. An aimless pursuit has led him here; another aimless pursuit shall be its ending. Tseng has always taken a secret, rebellious pride in not having allowed the ShinRa to conquer him completely. Now he realizes that he cannot balance past and present. He cannot live one life without making a lie of the other; in the end he will only lose sight of himself. He knows now his folly, to cling to such things as honour and pride in a world where you must become a wolf, or be devoured by them. 

_"The Shinra Manufacturing Department in Administrative Research. No desk here, son, just your new best friend." A strange chuckle later and a gun is slid across the desk, a trio of slots waiting to cradle materia. "Welcome to the Turks."_

He reaches for the heirloom tanto blade that sits on its stand on the dresser, with a click and a tug slides it from its sheath. Tseng bows his head; cool strands of hair slide over his shoulders to hang around his face. In his other hand he gathers it together and lifts it away; the edge of the blade is still deadly, razor-sharp as it was in the hands of his ancestors. With a soft sound like the cutting of a rope he feels a sudden weightlessness; hair tickles the nape of his neck and settles into the collar of his shirt. 

_I've become what I set out to be._

He drops the tanto to the floor, and with it the last pieces of his past. 

* * *

It is seven thirty in the morning and Rufus feels his attention drifting as he sits at a board meeting, at his father's right side—though he could not be considered further from being his right hand man. His is a position of ceremony and respect, but little else than image; it looks right for the President's son to be his successor. Not for the first time he wonders when his father's image of himself went from corporate businessman to royalty.

At the moment Scarlet carries on with her latest report from Weapons Development, her voice resonating against the back of his skull as a sultry drone. He has a headache, not uncommonly for one of these meetings; he learned a long time ago how to distance himself from the proceedings, though better logic suggests he should actually pay attention for future purposes. 

This is why attachment is dangerous. The memory of the kiss he and Tseng shared keeps replaying over and over in his mind, despite his attempts to dismiss it. He knows it's forbidden, of course, perhaps not in a written rule, but it is required, however quietly, that you don't get involved . . . much less with your bodyguard, in a position beneath you in the company. 

The lure of the forbidden makes it all the more powerful. Rufus has always been the type to want what he can't have, but Tseng seems to be his most lofty desire yet. He thinks now that he has been going about things all wrong. The question is whether he still has the ability to fix it, whether he _wants_ to fix it. He does, and in the same breath accepts that it is in no small part because the Turk is one of the first people in his life, despite titles and rank, to actually treat him as a person instead of a name. 

"—final conflict in Wutai, casualties were high—" 

Disjointed words, a change in reports, Heidegger speaking now, jar Rufus out of his thoughts. It must have been obvious for them to tell he wasn't paying attention, but as usual, no one truly seems to care. They are probably better satisfied if he does not absorb anything. 

"The campaign is considered to have given us a fifty percent financial loss. There is some structural damage on buildings at the fringe of the capital city, where the last bomb was set off by the resistance, their doing of course, not ours, but even still it will take some effort to repair if we decide to do so." 

Rufus glances over to see the Secretary of Urban Development—what was his name . . . Roberts, Reeve, something like that—speaking. 

"However," the man goes on, absently rubbing at his goatee, "we expect that the growth we'll incur by installing a reactor in Wutai will help make up for the loss." 

"Of course it will," President Shinra sniffs. 

The impact of the discussion finally sinks in for Rufus. The war with Wutai is over. He feels an awkward weight lift from his shoulders, uncertain of it having been there until now, when it is gone. 

"A trip will be needed to Wutai at the first of next week to take care of all the formal details," another nameless aide adds in. 

"Of course, of course," his father waves off the notion and stands up. "Only technicalities. Wutai is ours now, and everything in it." 

* * *

Rufus does not know how much time he has spent brooding when the door chimes, then glides quietly open. He is aware of it only at the fringes of his perception, but knows it must be Tseng; few have a keycard, and the muffled footsteps on the carpet are those of the Turk. He stands by the window, looking out over the nighttime scene of Midgar, a hand clutching at the cool metal frame that supports the convex glass. The city below is filled with tiny pinpricks of light, the same still as it was when he and Tseng had their first meeting in this very place.

He draws a breath to gather his composure. He will be dignified in this; he will prove that he is more than just the spoiled brat everyone believes him to be. 

When Rufus turns, that composure falters. Tseng looks strained in comparison to the polished appearance he usually presents to the world. His suit is immaculate, tie and shoes and gloves all appropriate. But his face bears the ghostly signs of exhaustion, lavender shadows beneath dark eyes as if he has not slept, his mouth set tightly. His hair, usually a dark curtain down his back, is now shorter in an uneven sweep along the length of his jaw. 

_I suggest you think carefully on what it is you intend to do once you have me._

"What—" Rufus hesitates. "What happened?" 

"I must apologize for my actions, sir." Tseng dips his head in a nod. "I have dishonoured myself and you." 

Rufus steps forward, reaches a hand up to brush the hair that catches in the Turk's white shirt collar. "What did you do?" he murmurs, more to himself than to Tseng. 

"My past is buried." Such formal words. "As it should have been years ago." 

The young Vice President shakes his head, frowning. "But you were right. I don't own you." 

"I am in your service." Tseng's voice suggests that the words have been thought over often. "Is this not what you wanted, sir?" 

_Isn't it?_ Rufus asks himself, feeling a strange, indignant flush burning his cheeks at his own selfishness. He feels a peculiar ache at the thought of letting the Turk go; it would be so easy now, to get what he wanted, what he still wants. The opportunist in him suggests he stop questioning and simply accept it. But it seems that in the span of less than a day, he has done a lot of growing up, and learned a great deal in the process. He cannot always have his way; inevitably, it becomes want versus need. 

"There's no need for this," he says thickly. "Haven't you heard? The war is over. You aren't needed here any longer—they don't need to keep you out of the way. You're dismissed." 

Tseng does not falter from his place. "My duty is to you." 

"Stop being noble and go," Rufus demands bitterly. "Stop torturing me. This isn't you. I didn't want you to—I never wanted you to—" 

"This is what you asked of me," Tseng says bluntly, coldly. "This is what you wanted." 

"I never asked you to become a puppet!" he cries, suddenly feeling every painful bit of his mere seventeen years. "I only wanted you—_you_, who always treated me like I was someone." 

"Sir—" 

"Don't call me that," Rufus pleads, for the first time in his life. "I have a name. _I'm_ not just a puppet, either." 

"Rufus," Tseng states at last, closing his eyes. "What, then, do you want from me?" 

Rufus moves closer to Tseng, tilting his head back to look up at the taller man. Then he clasps his hands behind the Turk's neck and drags him down so that he can kiss him. Tseng does not protest, only responds by wrapping his arms around Rufus's waist. It is an echo of what occurred to them not even a day before, but somehow it is different now, and as Rufus pulls away he is breathless. 

"Stay here," he murmurs. "Be mine . . . make me yours. Not because I order you to, but because you want to." 

"Are you certain?" Tseng asks seriously, placing his hands on Rufus's shoulders. "There is no going back from this." 

"I am," Rufus replies quietly, but his voice is firm. "No going back." 

Tseng captures him in another kiss, more forceful now, and something subtle and unconsciously possessive lingers in it. Rufus takes hold of Tseng's tie, loosening the knot to strip it from around his neck before reaching to push the Turk's jacket off his shoulders and let it crumple to the floor. Tseng's hands tug at Rufus's shirt and they break apart just long enough for it to be tugged over his head. 

They back toward the bedroom and stumble inside, ideas of grace and ceremony lost in this, the oldest of all dances, articles of clothing lost and torn and discarded carelessly along the way. Rufus falls back onto the bed and as Tseng goes with him, pressing him down into the crisp white sheets and soft down comforter, he thinks that this is all he wanted, for the Turk to give in to the pull of the attraction and the desire between them, for the sense of need within him to be filled. And when he cries out in completion, it is with Tseng's name on his lips. 

* * *

The morning finds a drowsy Rufus standing at the window with a cup of coffee, the steam of which fogs up the glass. Behind him, Tseng talks in a low voice on his mobile phone; outside, the hum of a helicopter zips by as it heads for the pad on the roof. The Turk snaps the phone shut and moves to stand behind Rufus at the window, placing his hands on his shoulders. "Sir, your transport is here."

Rufus turns to look at him, smiles a little as he twists around to let Tseng kiss him. They leave for Junon in a few minutes—even with the gravity of everything that has occurred, life goes on around them. That is the way it should be, the only way it can be, and he appreciates Tseng for making it happen. They will adjust and adapt; that is their way. They are Shinra, after all. 

"I trust my old man simply had to take the _Highwind_?" 

"Your travel schedules conflicted," Tseng demurs. 

"At least you're coming with me," Rufus concludes, going to make certain everything he needs is packed and ready. "I think you could present me with a Green Chocobo to ride to Junon and I wouldn't care." 

He pauses for a beat. 

"I could probably have you fired for that." 

"Sir." 

* * *

__

_I pressed my face against the glass,  
Smiled as my breath made some pattern or other.  
The world beneath me unfurled like a sail,  
Glinted in gold from this rich dawn sky._  
— VNV Nation, "Airships"

__

_fin_


End file.
